


safe and slow (the quiet things than no one ever knows)

by gutrots



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Codependency, D/s themes if u squint, Established Relationship, HYDRA Husbands, Hand Feeding, In a non sexy way tho, M/M, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 07:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17638460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutrots/pseuds/gutrots
Summary: old men, Chinese takeout, weird coping mechanisms.





	safe and slow (the quiet things than no one ever knows)

Brock doesn't like talking about his job.

Granted, not like he talks to many people that he doesn't share his job with, but even the seemingly simple "So what is it that you do?" asked by the odd employee in the very few non-SHIELD institutions he has to visit every once in a while is enough to annoy him.

There's no simple answer to the question of what it is that he actually does. Saying he's a soldier just doesn't cut it. 'Special agent' has a ring to it that reminds him of grainy spy movies that whatever distant relative was looking after him back in the day would record on VHS tapes. A mercenary, he could say, on government payroll, but that would just rub certain people the wrong way.

To put it most accurately, Brock's job is to see the bigger picture. Of course, it involves leading a team of highly skilled operatives on all sorts of combat and espionage missions in some - vague at best and morally gray at worst - attempt at maintaining world peace. It's proceed or retreat, kill or spare, triage or leave behind, that's his job. But at the core of it lies perspective. It's his job to predict every possible turn of circumstances and its direct outcome. To anticipate result before decisions are made. To look beyond men and guns and desert sand of whatever third world shithole they end up in and towards the fragile balance of action and consequence maintaining the status quo of the entire goddamn world.

It's the exact opposite of what Jack is responsible for.

Jack is Brock's second. Jack makes sure they have enough ammunition and MREs and medical supplies to last them however long they need them to last. He checks if Murphy reported his jammed rifle to the quartermaster and if Westfahl's ballistic vest is strapped on properly. He calls their local contacts to see if safe houses are stocked properly, to ensure there is enough blankets and soap to go about. He reminds Brock to take the pills for his insomnia.

He's the devil in the details, Jack is, and Brock has endless respect for that.

Not everyone does though.

It's not so bad when it's just Alpha, all of them having worked together long enough that the occasional comment of _mother hen_ thrown in Jack's direction comes across affectionate rather than snarky, even when there's relatively little affection to go about between the six of them. But Brock hears what others say, the fuckers from Bravo and Charlie who join them on missions sometimes. The personnel at the armory and in medical, the nameless people in admin and HR. Everyone who finds themselves at the business end of Jack's endless lists and reports, his hunched shoulders and seemingly timid attitude.

 _Rumlow's bitch_ , they say. Running errands for his boss. More of a housewife than a soldier, fussing and doting. _Docile, well-trained bitch, keeping the puppies fed and the hound dog happy_ , they say, and laugh when they think Brock is out of earshot.

Jack hears it too, but he doesn't bother standing up for himself. Brock knows it's because he doesn't care what they say or think. He does his job and he does it well, and then tries his best not to take it home with him. The jabs about his size, his scars and the eye he's had so much surgery on it's gone a bit lazy, the endless snark about his apparent muteness. Brock knows better than anyone how it affects Jack, even though he tries not to let it show.

He also knows that Jack has his own ways of coping.

It's late and they barely get back home, Brock calling first dibs on the shower the moment he walks through the door. He makes quick work of washing dust and grime off his skin, aching muscle longing to stretch out on the sofa as soon as possible. He puts on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, rifles through the junk drawer - the single one Jack lets him keep - for a crumpled takeout menu, and he's good, he's all set for the evening.

That is until it's much later and Jack gets out of his bath, until he stands in the doorway leading into the living room and Brock looks up from the styrofoam boxes and whatever dumb straight-to-TV movie he's got on for background noise. He catches that look in Jack's eyes, the one that tells him all he needs to know, and the shift in the mood is almost palpable.

"C'mere, Jackie" Brock says as he spreads his legs a bit wider, patting his thigh in invitation.

The first time it happened, back when Jack still had to ask, Brock only laughed in disbelief at the self-fulfilling prophecy coming to life right before his eyes. "Just wait 'til those fuckers from Charlie find out what we do after hours" he said. "Wait 'til they realise they were right after all, calling you my bitch."

The look of disappointment on Jack's face was enough to convince Brock to give this a try.

So just like he did back then, he lets Jack cross the length of the living room, cozy socks muting the sound of footsteps against hardwood floor, has him settle between his legs with his back against the sofa.

Jack is dressed only in his boxers and a threadbare t-shirt Brock recalls seeing in pictures from his college days, and he looks young, boyish even. He settles down where the rug doesn't quite meet the sofa and Brock wants to protest, knowing well that the hardwood can't do any good for Jack's bad back. He stays silent though.

This is for Jack, and Jack knows what he's doing.

When he's settled down comfortably Jack rests his head against Brock's thigh and closes his eyes, waiting. As if on cue Brock's hand finds its way into Jack's still-damp hair. He brushes his fingers through the length of it, untangling the curls at the nape of Jack's neck. He traces the outline of his ear and the first few vertebrae of his spine, feeling their shape beneath Jack's skin. He runs his hand along high cheekbones and the sharp angle of his jaw, feeling Jack exhale.

Brock can pinpoint the moment when he gets it _just right_ , when a deliberate motion of fingers running through Jack's hair makes the tension in his shoulders melt away. Slowly but steadily Jack's posture grows less rigid and the worry lines between his eyebrows almost disappear. Despite the fact that he didn't shave while they were away, leaving him with thick stubble, Jack looks younger, so much younger.

Usually Brock doesn't pay much attention to the fact that he's almost ten years Jack's senior, concluding that they both count as old men anyhow. But it becomes apparent in those fairly rare moments, Jack unguarded and vulnerable, their roles reversed, Brock suddenly being the one to care rather than being cared for.

It amazes him to no end, this endless trust Jack has in him.

He prefers not to dwell on it though, the concept of such responsibity entirely too overwhelming for the first night back home.

"You hungry, Jackie?" is what he chooses to say instead.

Jack nods, cheek still pressed to Brock's leg, before he turns slightly where he's seated so that he's almost facing Brock. Brock reaches into the takeout boxes, retrieving a piece of prawn toast.

After all their years together it's easier to anticipate Jack's strange moods, easier to prepare. Brock had a good idea of what to expect as soon as they were on the plane back to base, Jack even more quiet than usual, lost in tought. He knows it's the little things that make the differece, like the way he chose to sit upright on the sofa rather than lay down, how the TV is on much more quietly than any other day. How instead of their usual order from the Chinese couple streets down he decided on an array of appetizers, small things than can be hand-fed without making too much of a mess.

Jack always hated things being messy.

Slowly, almost meditatively, Brock feeds Jack egg rolls and wontons, pieces of vegetables and meat he picks out from the chow mein. They don't say a word to each other, Jack chewing, swallowing, leaning in to lick grease off Brock's fingers, Brock entirely too focused on getting this right.

The whole situation doesn't do much for him, sexually speaking. A grown man feeding a grown man Chinese food by hand. He's seen some weird porn in his days, men getting off on total obedience. Making whatever unlucky bastard happened to be their partner in the scene walk around like a dog on a leash, scratching them behind the ears when they did good and spanking them when they misbehaved.

This particular brand of kinky never got him hard.

If it were up to him, Brock would sweep Jack up in his arms, all six feet whatever of him, and carry him straight to their bedroom. Throw him on the bed, or put him down gently if that's what Jack is in the mood for, and kiss him long and loud and honest. Fuck him good, without any teasing or other unnecessary delays, until Jack's words stop making much sense and his nails run red welts down Brock's back, until he's moaning and gasping for breath. Hold him tight when he's all fucked out, kiss the back of his neck and fall asleep with Jack snoring softly and hogging the covers.

But that doesn't do it for Jack when he gets into that headspace of his, and so Brock doesn't even try. He sits there and slips bits of Chinese takeout to Jack, runs his non-greasy hand through Jack's hair, murmuring words of praise. Because strange as this arrangement is, it does something for Jack.

And Brock knows that he's not always the best partner out there, that he doesn't always get things right. But as long as he can do something, anything at all to ensure Jack doesn't wear himself thin with how dead set he is on looking after everyone but himself, he sure damn will, simple as it is.

And so when the food is finished and Jack braces his hands on Brock's knees, moving to stand up, Brock leans in to kiss the top of his head.

"Stay a while longer, Jackie" he says, and the shy smile on Jack's face as he moves to sit back down between Brock's legs makes this strange habit of his worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Hot new dealing w stress methods for 2k19: project ur unattainable coping mechanisms onto fictional characters


End file.
